


Fortress Above The Bookshop

by GodOfWar



Series: The Nice And Accurate Compendium Of Dealing With Bureaucracy As Told By Slightly Irritated Angel And Demon Entirely Done With This Shit [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anathema and Newton do their best, Aziraphale is a bit of a bastard, Blood, Blood and Injury, Cold Weather, Crack Treated Seriously, Crowley making Aziraphale laugh is a hill I will die on, Crowley was Raphael before he fell, Death appears like for a moment for coffee and biscuits, Did I Mention, F/F, F/M, I feel bad saying that but original characters are here as a plot device, I named the cat Darwin, I think real darwin would be very baffled how Cat Darwin was still alive, Illness, Injury, Innuendo, Kissing, M/M, Multi, Original Character(s), Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Posting as I go, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), This Is Sad, Wing Injury, Wings, a chapter I didn't expect, archangels can be bad too, books are involved, but our fav duo don't like dealing with big things, cold snake, curse, demon named Matt, did I tag medical procedures?, he doesn't introduce himself in this, if it doesn't rock your boat, in places, none of those super bad things happen to Aziraphale or Crowley, oh gosh, sleeping, soft, somewhat implied sexual content but feel free to disregard it, the cad, this is terrible mess, too many problems on the dancefloor, troubles continue, unexpected swords, until they absolutely have to, well...nearly, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21746839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodOfWar/pseuds/GodOfWar
Summary: Follows "Extended Stay" - this work is not finished, I add chapters when the mood strikes.chapter 1. Trouble walks in through the front door, Aziraphale is long-suffering and Crowley just wants to marry his pillows.chapter 2. Angels and Demon are closer to humans then they would wish for.chapter 3. Cursed swords and guests have no sense of good timing / curiosity can be painful but rewarding.chapter 4. Where Death drops by, a cat is acquired and Crowley makes physics his bitch.chapter 5. The cat is a monster. Gabriel is high. It's been five minutes and Beelzebub is So Done.
Relationships: Angel/Demon Relationships, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Series: The Nice And Accurate Compendium Of Dealing With Bureaucracy As Told By Slightly Irritated Angel And Demon Entirely Done With This Shit [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1549189
Comments: 38
Kudos: 142





	1. Chapter 1

"We are closed today. Which you'd know if you knew how to read, which begs a question what are you doing here."

Of course only the first part went through, he was an angel, after all. It would not do to offend an innocent soul. Even if said soul was a customer.

So maybe Aziraphale wasn't in the most charitable mood this morning. It has something to do with Prince of Hell doing their paperwork on his favorite sofa and making enough of noise to spoil even the most intriguing book. His focus shot, Aziraphale decided to head down, fix a cup of cocoa and read through his more esoteric tomes. He barely went through a half of his stack before the irritating bell sang from above door. In a fit of irritation he miracled it somewhere to Ecuador where it hung over in a small cafe in the countryside, both confused but infinitely more happier for it.

"You, angel! You are going with me!"

Aziraphale raised his eyes, disgruntled that anybody still dared to walk in after the stern send off and blinked at newcomer. It was a demon. He stood up, taking his glasses off and putting them in his pocket.

"No, I'm afraid I'm not. Now either leave or speak quickly."

"You don't understand! We have to go. Now!" If the bared teeth and posturing were supposed to be intimidating they failed miserably with how much fear sat in the electric blue eyes. Besides, he lived with a demon who took intimidation into a fine art, and Aziraphale was, without a doubt, a conneseiur and…feverent fan of his methods.

"Does it have something to do with archangels, plucked feathers and a worse for wear angel?"

"Ghnnn?"

Aziraphale took it as an agreement and with a firm hand in the middle of a demon's back he pushed them up the stairs despite the vocal protests.

"Sit down and stop fretting. Honestly."

Aziraphale sat the spluttering demon on the overstuffed chair where they continued to let out mysterious noises. Aziraphale did regret not having a camera ready to be able to show Crowley the way the poor bugger's eyes boggled when they noticed prince of hell Lord Beelzebub sitting on the ancient sofa cradling Archangel's head on their blanket-covered lap and tapping on the writing machine using only one finger. He tactfully held his amusement to himself and turned on his heel, making his way toward corridor that appeared out of blue sometime last evening, already sporting far too many doors for his liking. 

"Crowley? Darling?" The only thing that could confirm his beloved presence in the room was a mountain of miracled blankets that grew from the bed and spilled over until it was no longer visible. Aziraphale closed the door behind him and carefully started to dig in searching for familiar face. "Crowley, are you still sleeping?"

"Cold. Wassss sssnowing." Came extremely muffled sound somewhere to the right side of blanket forest.

It did indeed snow. All night. Whoever meddled with weather on that day was feeling either mean spirited or just enjoyed sleet, thirty centimeters of white, utterly frozen snake torture device and shards of ice in every breath all mixed up into potent wintery cocktail. No wonder Crowley was miserable even encased in his fluffy tomb, he always felt the temperature change far more keenly, especially after he woke up. Aziraphale snapped his fingers, heating the room to the point his body for a moment considered sweating and then unearthed the wild short mane from its hiding place. He found himself expectantly staring in the golden eyes, elliptical and gentle and so ineffably dear. He leaned closer, placing a kiss on each eyelid and finally on the tip of a freckled nose.

"I have something for you." He muttered quietly, letting his hand move over the hot skin of pillow-creased cheek. Crowley's hand slipped from under the covers and landed on the nape of Aziraphale's neck, thumb lightly skimming over a place under his ear.

"I will have something of that." Aziraphale fallowed, sighing in the long and thorough kiss, letting himself be pulled onto the ridiculously soft bed by insistent hands. "And maybe some of that, too."

Aziraphale jumped at the feel of Crowley's hand cupping his buttock through the thick material of his trousers. He teared himself away from the heated kiss, letting his lips steal one last peck before he wiggled away from demon's embrace despite the rather inviting half growled 'angel'.

"No." Said Aziraphale before he quickly reconsidered. "Well, not now. You need to get up." 

Crowley's head thumped on the pillow. Aziraphale regretfully turned away from the mussed red hair and well kissed lips to rummage through the insides of his spacious wardrobe. With triumphant shout he presented his choices, dangling them in both hands alluringly.

"Did you bought me clothes?" Crowley kicked half of the blankets, slithering closer the edge of the bed.

"Thermal shirt! It's supposed to help with keeping you warm. Some customers were talking about it a week ago. I forgot to give you those earlier."

"Angel, it's the size of a Christmas stocking."

"Well, darling, you are not precisely standard size..."

"And that means I can somehow fit into one leg of a pantyhose?" Aziraphale didn't have a time perform his little trick involving a certain look from under his lashes and a tiny sway on his heels that would guarantee at least a grudging 'fine'. Crowley reached out snatching the, now that he thought about it, a smidge too small garment and then it appeared onto him.

"It was a t-shirt darling."

"For a doll, yes. Or starved six year old. And now it's a turtleneck long sleeved bodysuit. What's that other thing?"

Aziraphale needed a second to remember that he was indeed clutching something in his other hand. It was particularly hard to focus when you are assulted with a vision of mile long legs that faded into form fitting body glove. Crowley slid closer, tugging the black material from his hand, his mouth pulled in a teasing grin.

"Oh, stop tempting me and dress up you willy serpent."

Crowley turned with a wide smile, his hips swaying in a characteristic way of his and Aziraphale prayed for patience to abstain from letting those sharp teeth get into places and seeing those hips swaying in a different way. He prevailed. And nearly lost his forced minute of celibacy when he opened his eyes and saw how terrible mistake he'd made by bringing a matching set. Leggings were officially not allowed to be on Crowley when Aziraphale couldn't have more then a quick wistful glance before they had to be hidden by trousers. Like now. 

Six thousand years of knowing the shape of that body didn't yet cure the hot coals of desire descending on this weak corporation all the times Crowley as much as smiled the certain way. Not to mention it did not chase away every instance of said body pressing him into all manner of surfaces available. Beautiful husband was a curse he was prepared to suffer through all eternity, in all the ways God permitted.

For now he oh so reluctantly kneeled before Crowley, beaming his chosen task of covering even more of that tempting skin. He cradled lightly scaled foot that nearly immediately found its way pressed into his hands and slowly slid a warm wool sock over the arch of that elegant limb, saying quiet farewell to each inch of disappearing skin.

"Those are atrocious. The most ugly pair of socks I've ever seen." Crowley wiggled his toes waking to life a frumpy looking reindeer's rack. He smiled widely in a way that made Aziraphale's stomach do that strange little flip and bowed over to kiss his forehead. "Thanks, angel. Anathema helped, didn't she?"

"She is a lovely girl."Aziraphale put the other sock on the chilled foot and then slipped both in the thickly furred winter shoes with a snakeskin pattern. Crowley's fingers moved gently through his hair and then slowly tilted his head back, curious frown etched between his brows. "But I don't think she likes shopping much, well, at least not in those modern elephantine centers. We…that's it, there is a coat for you, too, somewhere. Much like the one you've got few years ago but actually warm, that's it… if you like it?"

"Aziraphale, is there a reason I'm wearing shoes? Because if you woke me and put those on me because you wanted a new batch of cream cheese Danishes…"

There goes the subtle approach. And while Crowley's gaze was mild it didn't invite fibbing around the matter, so Aziraphale plunged in, hopeful for the outcome, if only to finally put this affair behind and get rid of all those uninvited beings occupying his space.

"Ah…there might be a distressed demon in our living room and another angel in yet undisclosed location that needs some medical help."

Crowley sighed, pushed Aziraphale to his feet and patted the bedside table for his glasses.

"Remind me, why we are doing this?"

"Because it's right thing to do?" 'And you wouldn't do it any other way' was left unsaid but no less true.

"I prefer to think that it has something to do with the fact they would owe us." Aziraphale raised his eyebrow in a knowing sort of way and watched Crowley roll his eyes at him. "Oh, fine. Find me that coat and get me some coffee. I'm going to get my things and check on our casual pain in the ass."

"Splendid! Oh, darling…about those Danishes?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go progressively worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this before I change my mind and actually start re-writing at which point it will be finished circa... never.

Anathema barely stopped herself from screaming finally and throwing her hands when she heard the familiar sound of vintage Bentley engine murmuring outside the bookshop. She and Newt had been waiting around for nearly half an hour now, getting increasingly more cold in empty dusty room bereft of its usual occupants. And then the door opened and the words died on her lips before they passed. 

Crowley walked in carrying a large leather bag with a faded red cross at his hip and an angel grasped in his arms. A slight little thing, hiked high on his hip nearly disappeared under the thick gray blanket wrapped around him? Her? The only things visible was a mop of short light brown hair and golden tipped feathers finishing a hand-span and some from the ground. Crowley did something with his mouth that could be considered a smile when he noticed them. A shadow darted by his side as the door clicked closed. Short man nearly plastered himself to Crowley's side, standing on tiptoes to peer at the angel hanging limply before he noticed Anathema huddled behind a large desc and Newt awkwardly perched on top of it.

"Humans!"

"Hey book girl," Crowley fallowed her gaze and then offered a lopsided impish smile." That isn't what it looks like?"

"So this isn't kidnapping?"

"Nope, just friendly somewhat consensual angel acquisition. Stop fretting Matt, they won't dunk you in holy water." He added to the fidgety companion that was nearly hanging off him like a second coat. "Why are you standing about?"

"Because nobody is here?"

Crowley's eyebrows disappeared under the seam of his hat and then he moved with his usual saunter dragging the, apparently demonic, entity named Matt and effortlessly changing his grip on the slumbering angel to open the door they hadn't even seen after climbing on a staircase they thought decorational.

That's when the screaming started.

It was a bedlam full of flying feathers, golden paint spilled on the floor, voices arguing above someone who wailed wordlessly and heart-wrenching sobs coming from an angel curled tightly on the naked floor, swaying back and forth with stark white wings splattered with…

That's when Anathema understood that the beautiful shining gold was not paint.

She grunted when a body was unexpectedly pressed into her hands, she scrambled to hold it as Crowley yanked Newt closer to help her with a single order of 'on the stomach on the sofa' before he let go of a frightfully heavy angel. A pair of dark hands appeared, halving the weight of a tiny thing hanging from Anathema's arms in uncomfortable tangle. 

They dragged themselves in awkward jumble toward unsuspecting plain sofa, before as gently as they could depositing the angel on top of the pre-prepared blankets.

She straightened, leaving the demon to kneel nearly where he stood as he reached to pet the mussed brown hair.

Crowley and Aziraphale stood a bit to the side, demon's back firmly to the commotion as he was grasping Aziraphale's forearms in a light but sure grip, talking to him slowly. The angel looked pale, his mouth drawn into a nervous smile as his fingers clenched and unclenched on a dark material of Crowley's winter coat. Then he nodded primly, squeezed Crowley's hands and with a deep breath chased whatever was plaguing him and straightened his clothes in a familiar gesture.

"Enough!"

And for a moment even the sobs turned into barely-there sniffles.

"Thanks, angel. Now…" He walked to the tight ring of drawn faces where the wails originated from. Two angels stood up and stood in his way. "Out of my way."

"This is a job for an angel, begone."

"Yes, because you are doing such a thorough job, Nufiel. Nearly as well as your first flying lesson. Now fuck off."

"Crowley, dear. Manners."  
Crowley seemed to reconsider, before with a sugary sweet voice he spat.

"Fuck off, please." 

An angel, and if Anathema was to guess the name of the tall rail thin man with unfortunately round jaw, not Nufiel, took offence to that and curling his fist tried to communicate the displeasure by putting it through Crowley's face. Crowley ducked, caught him above the elbow and sent him flying right where Aziraphale caught him by the waist and forcibly put him on the chair. 

"Now apologise to my husband or you can get away from my house and search for help elsewhere." Anathema put her bag on the coffee table unpacking a bunch of books and loose paper marveling at the change. Perhaps she should have expected this. She once caught Aziraphale putting grapes in a toilet and watching them bob and exclaiming 'Remarkable' every time they didn't sink when he flushed the water but also having spirited dispute with a lamp in what Google Translate recognized loosely as Greek. And then there was Crowley pushing his whole tongue inside a bottle to get the last drips of wine from the bottom and forgetting how to get it out but also drawing plans for a whole ass plane on bunch of napkins. She couldn't tell whatever they were drunk at any point or not. 

It was easy to forget that those two man-shaped entities that were older then the world, while they might be so confused by things that were considered normal or stumbled along being sometimes so exasperatingly ridiculous, were neither stupid nor weak. Most important of all, they were incredibly protective of each other...and going by the impervious grimace on Aziraphale's face and the flash of a yellow eyes from over the black Valentino glasses there will be hell to pay if any of their…guests tickle them wrong.

The angel pressed into the chair by the force of glare alone and mousy looking woman-shaped Nufiel extended dual apologies and Anathema finally could see the shape curled on the floor when the wall of protective wings disappeared to make way for Crowley. He kneeled close, pushing his hand into a mop of dirty blond hair in search for a neck.

"Stop crowding zir, go, shoo. Aziraphale, show two of them how to take care of…Jankiel?" Crowley's head moved without taking his eyes off the back of his patient toward the angel still crying on the floor. Anathema came closer, leaving Newt to help Aziraphale and stood to the side where he could see her.

"Need some help?" He nodded sharply, mouth pulled into a tight line. She lowered her voice, leaning over. "Bad?"

He didn't answer. Instead he grasped the right wing gently and spread his fingers over the wound. Crowley's hands were elegant, slim and large, but still not enough to cover the reap in the light membrane. It was horrible wound starting bare inch from the bone and ending a whole foot further, angled and nearly parting the fragile skin all the way down. It did not bleed gold. Not nearly as pure as it should be. Patches of sludge-like, milky brown substance clung to feathers in drying globs. It smelled…wrong. Fetid. 

"Curse." She whispered. He looked up at her, gesturing for her to take away his glasses. She did, putting them away in her pocket. His fingers uncovered an inch of zir's off-white collar. She watched the spidery black lines travel slowly on tanned skin, cracking it and leaving it dry like a snake's moult. "I have crystals, but I don't know how well would they do against something like that."

"I will take what I can." He raised his hand. His fingers were burned.

_Shit._

"You can't…" She mimicked snapping her fingers. He shook his head, his pupils mere slits in a sea of gold. "So ze can…discorporate?"

"Die." He corrects in a voice so low she barely hears it. He stands up suddenly, making her step back a bit. This is the first time since they met when she could say that he looked old. He is staring at something beyond her, wiping the blood from his hand and steeling himself for whatever he thinks might come. With quick fingers the buttons of his coat fall from their places and in a moment he is dressed only in close fitting sweater and jeans. He pulls the sleeves up, properly, evenly. A pair of thin blue latex gloves find themselves on his hands. And then he walks around her and in a open space of enlarged room a large l-shaped table appears with not even a whisper of displaced air. 

"Pick zir up as gently as you can, stretch the wing and hold it for me." He turns to the demon he came with and frowns as he takes in the unmoving angel lying face down on the sofa." Matt, Hania will be alright. Just check if her fever is going up. Put a cool cloth on her neck. You can lay under her, she needs warmth. Newt, go and make some good strong tea. There is a box in first cupboard on the left."

And as everyone is moving she has strong suspicions that the tea is not really a tea. 

Crowley moves differently. It's jarring to see him loose that characteristic sway of his body and nice drawl of his low voice in exchange for too contained movement economy and clipped sentences. There is undertone of hissing, something that Aziraphale catches on right away, turning and picking a bag Crowley must have dropped when he entered the room. He brings it and opens it on the miracled chair and then, not really caring about spectators he climbs on his tip toes and touches their foreheads together. Crowley's eyes are squeezed shut, he swallows too hard, kisses the blond curls. She knew how efficient could be just the way he was, the contrast was even more upsetting when she knew where it was coming from. Crowley was afraid. She was afraid too. 

Angels were not supposed to die.

"The blade, did any of you know how it looked like?" Aziraphale looks at Nufiel, who shakes her head. A hand raises to the left, shyly, halfway, like an unsure schoolboy. An angel peers from over a shoulder of the stocky demon holding his other hand. She encourages him to step forward and ends up shoulder to shoulder, nudging him gently. "Cassiel. Come lad. You too, miss…?"

"Fulla." She stands even straighter, her bristly chin jutting out as she plants herself protectively close to the angel.

"Miss Fulla. Come on, dear boy. Describe it too me. There is only that many weapons which can do a damage like this."

She looses the threads of all conversations around her. The crystals takes some work. She digs them up from their protective sack and counts them. She places them around the unnamed angel, swallowing when the clear surface reflects something far too dark and twisted to be put into words. She works around Crowley who is too focused to even notice her as he plucks the feathers from around the wound as fast and as precise as he is able in the rapidly dwindling time that's given to them.

She gives her blessings. They are human but maybe worth something. She throws her own curses at the one who did the wound. And this one is human too, but it worked on a creepy classmate in Uni so maybe it will work on preparator of this senseless violence. She walks into the kitchen and takes a sip of scalding tea that burns all the way down her throat. She was right, its not a tea. She feels the tight squeeze of her stomach loosen, the ice that had nothing to do with weather that crowled up into her chest melted and she sat heavily. If even for a moment. Aziraphale was looking through the book so old it was kept together only by miracles and dedication. Fulla sat with her back to the wall, holding trembling Cassiel with one arm wrapped around his middle and trying to feed him a cup of tea with the other. She felt Newt walk behind her and hide his face in her hair. His hands were shaking. There was one other angel, she didn't even knew when she came. She was curled around her half empty teacup and so visibly lost, and it hit Anathema right in the soft place how much all of those ancient powerful creatures reminded her of humans. Children abandoned by their parent, left alone without purpose and with unclear rules to choose from. In the end they didn't know what to do any more then any mortal did.

She looked through the window. The soft fairy lights blinked merrily from the street bathed in holidays decorations. It was twenty third of December and she had never felt this sad in her life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And things get a bit worse still, because I like drama and stupid decisions

Aziraphale didn't know what to do. Of course he would have never admitted it to anyone…well, one person only, but he put on his working face and fallowed his natural inclination to do what he did best. And that meant research and helping others help themselves. Supposedly.

If only he could focus.

His eyes kept drifting from the text translation which was proving to be…difficult. Against the popular opinion the humanity seemed to built about angels, they were not in fact nearly omnipotent. Some of them had a habit of forgetting that minor detail but most were aware, that their knowledge was limited to what they learn for themselves and, while reading minds is a potential talent one might use - it is not the _angel way_. Not since the verbal speech was invented, anyway. The problem of having to learn all one needs to know is that you have to first find out what would be useful and then spend time doing all the digging till you finally get to the bottom of the matter. 

Aziraphale, without false modesty, could say that he was very talented in finding all manner of information quickly and efficiently. What he couldn't say was that he remembered everything without having to unearth the answers from the dusty corners of long buried memories. Thus the problem with translating a book from a language - mangled as it was from many rewritings done in between - lost nearly two and half thousand years ago. Trying to find references in four different books and a whole stack of manuscripts older then quite a good number of the host was…fascinating and engaging. Except _not now_.

One might say, bollocks to that. 

But while the nuances escaped him and sentences refused to make sense, the evasive language meander was only small part of his discontent.

He did not care for riddles in times that need clear answers and 'I bestow the power of Above and Below and take from you and friend in my wake' did sound too much like one for his liking. It did not make much sense, like an important part of the message went missing along with solution, but that was all that he had beside a gruesome picture of an angel impaled on the sword like a many winged butterfly. 

Aziraphale took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

He could not help but notice Anathema clinging to her cup a mere two feet away from him. The poor woman had not lifted her gaze for the last ten minutes, her bottom lip trembling till she trapped it between her teeth. Her young man did not look any better. On the table stood a simple tray laden with full steaming cups, cups that should have been redistributed to the angels and that sole demon nestled on the couch in the living room. Newton kept swallowing and breathed shallowly, pressed into the back of Anathema's chair, unmoving and staring at the curls of steam like it held any answers. And then there was Eleleth, silent as a cat, her black hair iridescent like sterling wing obscured her face, leaving visible only the tip of an eagle nose peppered with silver dots. She has yet to say anything or look at anyone at all, wrapped in her thoughts so deeply that even Cassiel's soft sniffs and calm murmur of Fulla's voice didn't even stir her from her chosen spot.

There were too many celestial and infernal beings in his home. Aziraphale never had been terribly social. He enjoyed company and meeting new people and kept cordial relationships with many humans…but he liked to choose with whom he spends his time and for how long. He certainly, not in any foreseeable future would have predicted his living room to be infested with people whose names he barely knew. Not to mention that too many of them were expecting him and his darling demon to fix what might not be fixable. It was nerve wracking even before they knew that poor Jegudiel's wing was torn with a cursed blade. Zir tortured wails will haunt Aziraphale's memory for a very long time. Gabriel's pleading face and the fact that he barely moved his eyelids even when Beelzebub carried him in their arms around the house like a puppet with its strings cut, was somehow even worse. He dearly hoped his former boss would not wake up anytime soon and wander in, drugged to the gills and ungainly like a newborn duckling as he was.

He blessed the fact that there was no more blood-curdling wails or sobs coming from the next room. He had left Nufiel and her temperamental friend, Kushiel, in charge of poor Jankiel, showing them how to clean their wings from blood and keep careful eye on the broken off feathers. The concoction that Crowley fed to Gabriel to take the edge of the pain was steeping on the counter right next to a box adorned with a logo of Aziraphale's favorite bakery. He toyed with the idea of miracling the box to the bedroom, excusing himself and then plunging into its depths. Frankly, an angel should not be asked to deal with that amount of stress before breakfast. 

Then it occurred to him that while he can't right now actually go and buy more pastries so to not to appear to be rude, he can do the oldest trick in the world. A plate appeared on the table. The ten original Danishes multiplied and obediently fit where Aziraphale told them to.

"Where did they came from?" Asked Newt, his eyes lost that bleak look as he reached out.

"Crowley got them when he went for Hania." Aziraphale plucked the pastry, moving away from the priceless texts, bit into cheesy insides and fought the urge to moan as the taste filled his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Fulla's hand gripping two Danishes with lightening speed and then tasting one experimentally with a tip of her black tongue, her strangely small and round furry ears twitching. Apparently finding it agreeable she pressed the other into Cassiel's hand before scarfing down her treat and piercing the angel on her lap with a sharp look while her hand sneakily headed for another.

"Hey, what do you think you are doing?" Growl he recognized as Kushiel was loud enough it charged the atmosphere in the kitchen like a wave of static. Aziraphale send a pointed glance at the teacups and then at Newt who was trying to lick his fingers of powdered sugar while dancing in a place, trying to avoid Aziraphale's eyes.

Well, that was his cue. 

It's not like Crowley couldn't protect himself. He was no more harmless then Aziraphale when someone ruffled his feathers, even more vicious perhaps, simply because he was not in a habit of shying away from confrontation till no other choice was presented. Well, except in Armageddon scenario, but Aziraphale was sure that going against beings who could erase you from existence and/or facing calamity of genocide, fallowed swiftly by a threat of eternal pain would make even the bravest heart freeze for a pause. Fact was, Crowley was the sort of person that would not let things as insignificant as little discomfort got between him and the one he tried to help. Which meant that fists and miracles may fly and, unless Kushiel became good at using his imagination as well as he used his mouth, there will be one more angel with health issues to care for.

He honestly understood why Kushiel kept doing what he was doing. He was, after all, tasked with ensuring punishment in Heaven and he had a certain expectation...conviction, maybe, that he was entitled to every information he wished to know and sure control over the what and the why anything around him would happen. It didn't make him any less annoying, paper-pushing stick in the mud hot-headed idiot, though, which was very unfortunate combination when faced with opposition.

Aziraphale grabbed his book and the loose translation miracling his fingers clean beforehand and stomped into the living room with Newt fallowing meekly at his heels. Kushiel tried to tower over Crowley, that baby chin once again far too close to demon's face. He was growing redder with each passing second, glitttery white forehead proving a rather unbecoming contrast, as Crowley didn't acknowledge him, too busy mixing a tiny amount of clear liquid with an amber colored one added carefully with pipette. There was a jar standing to the side. Its top was covered with something white with two holes pierced through the material and bottom filled with what appeared to be venom. And if Aziraphale remembered it right it had potential to cause nausea, vomiting, numbness, headache, sweating, muscle weakness, arrhythmia, and seizures. (Picking a hurt, dizzy and nearly completely blind snake-shaped demon is not a good idea when you try to pat it on the head instead of putting it in the box and skedaddling to someone who knows what they are doing. It was a painful way to learn and it was better that Crowley didn't remember that it was Aziraphale he bit after an unfortunate accident involving horses and near discorporation.)

He recognized Crowley's posture as the one Nanny Ashtoreth favored when dealing with Thaddeus Dowling or Warlock's temper tantrums. It was simply another facet of his personality - stern and intimidating and a slightly scary one but also immeasurably kind and steeled for any sort of trouble that would come. He slipped into it like a foot into a worn leather shoe, with all the ease of someone who found it comfortable and familiar. Aziraphale observed it over the ages, that part of him that would peek out every now and then and couldn't help but think about all those human parents he witnessed scolding their offspring with nearly exact same body language present. Something told him that Crowley gained that particular way of presenting himself long before Adam and Eve walked the Earth.

Kushiel apparently never been on receiving end of the silent treatment going by the clench of his whitening fingers or learned much about body language. Aziraphale walked over, smoothly inserting himself close to the pair. He stole a glance at Jegudiel's horribly twitching wing. Most of the feathers around the wound were missing, coverts thrown in the metal bucket with no care for their divinity. What was left was soft down, light as air and mostly caked in blood. It reeked. And not at all like angel's blood. Aziraphale stopped breathing to not to lose his hastily eaten pastry and contemplated opening all the windows to get rid of the smell of putrid rotting flesh. He fallowed the veins on the inches of exposed skin, feeling growing horror settle in his stomach at the grayish cast spreading from the cut. Jegudiel wasn't breathing and when Aziraphale focused, ignoring all the pinpricks of the other beings, zir light was barely brighter then a flicker of a candle. The body spasmed, raising inches by bending backwards, flopping, twitching and falling down like a puppet with severed strings. It didn't seemed to matter that the damaged wing was held down by Penemue's wiry forearms. Her forehead was wrinkled in concentration, flowing blue dress splattered with milky brown colored drops and skin above the gloves was covered in spots looking like cigarette burns, but she didn't budge an inch from her place. There were tears in her eyes and her teeth clamped hard on her bottom lip, shivers racking through her frame as if she was drenched in cold water. The wing moved under her, muscles contracted puffing up the lilac plumage and making the tear bleed less sluggishly. It kept hitting the surface of the table like a fish dragged out of the water, doing more harm then good.

"Kushiel, go annoy someone else." Penemue raised her hazel eyes when the worst of the attack passed, brushing off the substance with a wet tissue before she once again placed her weight against the wing. Drop of golden blood flowed from her bottom lip and rested on her chin.

"He just added venom to…whatever it is! I'm not letting some demon kill my friend!"

Kushiel grabbed Crowley's by the collar of his turtleneck. Crowley's arms went to the sides, pipette and a jar still grasped in his hands as he swayed with the motion. "Hear that, demon?!"

"Do you ever wash your teeth?"

"I have a better question, dear. Do you want to sit down quietly and let go of my husband or do you want us to send you to Petersburg without being able to come back here?"

"Listen here…" Spat Kushiel, making half a step toward Aziraphale, material of Crowley's sweater still in hand.

"Oi!" Crowley growled into his face, moving fast and standing right between them. With sharp movement he freed both himself and then his hands, glass clacking on the table. "Loose that tone when you are speaking to him or you will loose something more then your dignity."

"Thank you darling, but that won't be necessary, Kushiel was just leaving, wasn't he?"

Aziraphale didn't notice Eleleth approach. Not until she made her way to them, curled her bony hand into fist and put it through Kushiel's face. He stumbled back, hands grasping his bleeding nose, eyes wide with disbelief. She put her hand into pocket of her loose dark gray suit pants taking out long, bright yellow string and with sharp gesture threw it toward backed up angel. It hovered in the air for a moment, then, quick as a blink it tied itself around struggling man-shaped being. He finally fell down, trussed up like a ham. She kicked him with the edge of her shoe closer to the wall and out of the way. 

"I don't suffer fools." Eleleth threw a blanket on the wiggling body before she turned to Crowley. "Do as you have to. How can I help?"

Crowley looked her over with a tired smile before he gave her a pair of blue gloves and shuffled her toward Jegudiel's head. Aziraphale watched Crowley's hands as he started filling the syringe with his own diluted venom. Something was wrong. There was tightness pulling the corners of his mouth into a straight line and too much care of where precisely his body took him. 

Crowley was terribly graceful creature. He carried himself with a sort of unthinking motion, loose and uncaring of where his limbs land like he was made of liquid and smoke. It was smooth, even when he was drunk or perhaps more so when he was, but this, this was worrying.

Aziraphale took a few steps forward, focusing on the stiff set of his husband's shoulders.

"I'll wager a guess Kushiel doesn't have a significant infernal other?" Eleleth offered him a mirthless smile, her hands resting on Jegudiel's wrist, holding the twitching limb against the table as Crowley searched for a vein. She exchanged a look with Penemue before she shook her head, commenting wryly. 

"No. I don't think so."

Crowley straightened from his place, chasing away both angels with gentle poke of his shoulder and move of his head. Everything about it felt wrong. The lack of ribbing, of sarcasm, of rolling eyes. The unheard 'what, with his shining personality?' Or 'pity, someone could have helped him take that stick out of his ass'. Aziraphale knew him. Knew him as well as one can know someone after six millenia and there was only small handful of times when Crowley would get this quiet, this contained. Aziraphale's bastard of a husband was missing the 'bastard' part and that was unacceptable. Aziraphale looked at the glowing dirty blood trickling sluggishly from the wound and made up his mind.

"He hadn't, although I can not understand why would anyone wish to." Nufiel came from behind them, straightening from Jankiel's side and missing all the less charitable looks thrown her way. 

"So, why are you here?"

"We were with Jegudiel. Me and Kushiel. Ze got called by Uriel but we all went together, planned to take a walk on the grounds later. We waited outside. And then we heard screams…so terrible screams. Someone was barking orders but you know halls of Heaven, sounds distort, I don't know who it was, what they said. We run in. There was blood on the floor…Jed was wailing, trying to miracle the tear from zir wing, then ze told us to run, that we need to go to Earth and fast and before we left…there was Jankiel. On the floor, right before the lift. We got out. Cassiel was already walking toward the bookshop, mostly dragged by that other demon. I don't even know why we are here, who would have hurt them in Heaven of all of places?"

"Archangels." Mutters Eleleth, leaning slightly toward Penemue's larger frame and then jumping up, hissing in pain, twirling around to stare at the tall angel and Aziraphale chooses that moment to put his hand through bloodied feathers.

"Aziraphale, no!"

The pain was…there was no true words to describe how deep it went. It started like a slight feeling of intense heat at the tips of his fingers but within moments it intensified and he felt himself burn right to his very bones. And then a hand grasped his wrist pulling it away but the pain only grew worse. A whimper slipped past his lips. Crowley swore, his hand flying away realizing his mistake. The gloves were disposed of quickly, neatly put one into the other without leaving a trace on trembling terribly wounded skin. Aziraphale's hand nearly traveled all the way to his mouth at the sight of his husband's poor abused limbs but it was caught neatly, this time by a handful of wet wipes till his skin was clean again. Pain lingered, easing slowly until he could breath again without Crowley's frantic instructions.

"Why did you do that you blessed idiot!" Aziraphale ignored the angry tone recognizing it for what it was. 

"You were in pain, I needed to know why." From Crowley's expression alone Aziraphale concluded that he was not terribly impressed. It was alright. Aziraphale wasn't all that impressed with himself either, thinking about the text he tried to puzzle not that long ago and coming up with the simple solution that he was perhaps too used to people being smart. And that makes for a very poor researcher when one is asking questions and not contemplate that they might have simple answers. He smiles tightly at the demon whose eyes are purely golden and full of pain and worry. "Oh, on the other hand I have solved that ridiculous riddle."

Crowley lets out a long breath through his nose, his expression very clearly spelling 'alright, I will bite, but we are speaking of it later'."What is it? What does it do?"

"The first part says that it bestoves and holds the power of both above and below. It means it's cursed to give from both sides while it can be used as a Judgement instrument. Whole lot of good it does." He heard the soft huff of air from his side and waited for a moment for the comment that should have rang. He swallowed harshly when none came, worry gnawing at his gut. "It theory it takes our soul? Spirit? What it means is that it feeds on what we are, in our energy be it infernal or divine and takes away our power by feeding us its opposite. 'Take from you and friend' - take power from the one who is hurt and those who would help them. Oh, it feels like I've been doing miracles whole day without a rest like that time in…"

"…Pompei." Crowley finished with him, raw skin of his hands touching apologetically the finger shaped burn. Aziraphale stretched from his seat and kissed his cheek. "Can it be broken?"

"I think it can. Once the wound is closed, once it heals it will break."

"That simple, huh?" Crowley doesn't move from his place. His sclera filled with gold, pupils mere slits and his weight is pressing a little bit too much against Aziraphale's knees for it to be anything but trying to keep himself upright. Aziraphale raises his right hand, gently smoothing it through the short red hair and cradles that dear face, thumb moving over pronounced cheekbone.

"I fear, there is nothing simple about it. How are you still keeping yourself up?" Crowley smile is tight but genuine, he bends down and kisses the untouched patch of skin on Aziraphale's wrist and then puts himself up, rolling the tension from his shoulders. There is a stubborn tilt to his chin a twist to his mouth and something in Aziraphale's chest looses up at this familiar sight that used to bother him once.

"Don't you know, angel? I'm always up." And then his eyebrows wiggle like particularly lively caterpillars and Aziraphale laughs and laughs and doesn't mind the tears.

Here he is, that flash bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I realized that some of you might want a list of all those angels and demons crawling about :)
> 
> Angels 
> 
> Hania - the poor dear that got few of her feathers plucked, requested vacation immediately after and caught the flu. It was really a bad week
> 
> Jegudiel - got on the wrong end of a sword, lets hope ze is the only one
> 
> Kushiel - he has anger issues and nice dose of loyalty plus a to large pinch of 'heaven ordered' smiting mood. Not the best mix
> 
> Nufiel - the less said about angel/demon relations the better, but it doesn't mean she wishes them the worst
> 
> Jankiel - they had a rather poor start of a day and no close friend in heaven to help them get out sooner rather then later.
> 
> Penemue and Eleleth - are a part of girl team, but you don't know it yet, so shhhh
> 
> Cassiel - is a baby. I'm sorry, he just need a hug and pastries
> 
> Demons
> 
> Matt - anxious sweetheart who could probably intimidate a mouse if he would try really hard
> 
> Fulla - a cuddle monster who is very literal about 'hitting it like the fist of an angry god'


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barely edited because author was deliriously happy it got finished 
> 
> warning for :  
> A) medical procedures and author taking the knowledge of such from watching too much veterinarian shows...  
> B) Newton being a bean and calling certain demon 'Mister Crowley' even in his head

It was clear that Mister Crowley was not okay the same way it was obvious he would have danced a spirited cancan atop a table if that would mean making Aziraphale loose the tight-lipped fake smile that appeared once he looked at the book left upside-down on the cushion. Newt peered at it from his precarious perch on the sofa's arm, but could only see a gory picture and spirited mess of squiggles that was supposed to represent language. He felt chill climbing up his spine just looking at it and had a sudden and deep need to see Anathema, if only for a second. As if reading his mind she showed in the kitchen door and questioning expression on her face. Newt shrugged, sending her crooked half smile, relived by her presence and by even more when Aziraphale closed the book and cradled it to his chest. There was something in Aziraphale's face that told the world clearly that it will not be put in a place of honor behind a glass case but probably jammed in a metal box and kicked somewhere to gather dust once he was finished with it.

The angel and demon who, till this moment stayed in the kitchen, appeared right behind Anathema. Fulla (if Newt remembered her name right) took the stock of the room, gathered Cassiel closer, making his taller frame nearly fold in half as he put his face in her neck, and tugged him toward the unexplored part of the flat, disappearing down the corridor without as much as by your leave. Perhaps knowing only Mr Crowley spoiled Newt somehow, or at least just enough to expect a minimal level of politeness out of demons. Newt dearly hoped that those two would have enough self preservation to leave Aziraphale's books alone at the very last.

"Crowley, it will kill zir. "Aziraphale still sat on his place where he was pushed by Mr Crowley's insistent fingers. His hand was still red, like he was caught in cold weather without gloves and he swallows too many times. Newt feels small at the tone of his voice, one finger picking and circling a single loose thread from his sweater and counting how many times it can loop around. "It burns out the divinity and ze is already... "

"More then halfway gone? Yes...It won't take long." Mr Crowley bend down and dipped his hands in a bowl that appeared on the side, washing them with a square piece of strangely smelling soap and he did not look up until he was done. 

Newt tugged the yarn harder. His heart was thumping fast in his chest as he peered from misty eyes at the people around him. 

One, two, two and a half.

"Wait, you mean that ze will be undone?" It was the first time that the mouthy angel Numiel? Nufiel? sounded scared instead of just irritated, her head swinging wildly from Aziraphale to Mister Crowley to the angel strapped to the table. "I thought that it would just discorporate zir, not…"

Newt had a brief thought about how little the angels thought of being violently and brutally evicted from their bodies if they can't even sound properly worried about it. Newt was worried when he tried to climb a ladder or had the unfortunate meeting with a bee on his morning walk. Even if one day he will go to heaven, he though that being murdered by a magic sword was slightly disturbing way to go and not something anyone would recommend, no matter how awesome the story would it make. But maybe that was just sensibility speaking and from what he already saw the new celestials were a bit like a flock of flamingos, dancing around only once someone points them the way. Mostly, Newt could relate.

Mister Crowley was once again at the angel's side, putting the back of his hand against the grayish tint on zir neck. Ze was no longer twitching, which seemed like that was a good thing. It didn't feel good. Jegudiel wasn't breathing-ze was not breathing since the beginning but now it was visible- just a winged body draped on the table, one wing extended, the other tied tightly with leather belts to keep it from hurting zirself and others. It probably hurt. Newt felt hurt. Like he was a part of a story, the kind that need sacrifice to put characters together. He never liked those, always preferring happy endings to tragedies and wished with all his heart that it would end well and calm the gnawing feeling churning in his belly.

Aziraphale clicked his fingers and the angel that kept struggling under the blanket stopped hitting the wall and went…elsewhere. And so did the couple with unexpectedly mundane names that somehow stayed still and silent through all of that and Newt thought it was possibly the wisest thing they did. Aziraphale climbed to his feet, swaying lightly in place and then put a gentle hand on Nufiel's forearm and led her out of the room, throwing a glance at the rest of them. He leaned toward her, speaking slowly, voice far too low to hear but heavy and serious. The book went with them and Newt swallowed involuntary at the sense of foreboding that gripped him hard.

"Soooo, Newt." He startled at the sound of Mister Crowley's voice before he realized that he was addressed. He shot a look at Anathema only to receive a light shooing wave. No help there, especially since she looked so amused. She always looked amused when she left him with Mister Crowley, but there was no telling why. Newt untangled his hand and climbed onto his feet, obediently walking to stand closer to the demon. He swallowed. He knew that Mister Crowley will not hurt him, that in fact he was probably safer with him then with almost anyone else in the world. Mister Crowley cared very much about his friends, even if he liked to pretend he didn't, and they were friends. Newt knew those things. He accepted them. He was not afraid. But something in Mister Crowley made him as strung up inside as a bowstring, expectant and eager and not quite knowing !whatever for. So it was strange and uncomfortable even if it was not actually unpleasant or scary. If he only knew why he wanted Mister Crowley's attention nearly as much as he didn't actually want it, it would be just peachy. Now he was squinted at with inhuman golden eyes, feeling his spine straighten nearly against his will and swaying once on his heels. 

"Show me your hands." It was a little like magic, because Newt didn't remember deciding to move, and yet his hands were already up. There was a snap of fingers and he got a chance to discover that Mister Crowley's hands were rough and far warmer then he expected. And what he really wanted to know was how he could stand touching anything when they looked so…hurt. Like he put them into boiling oil and forgot they were there for a moment. But touching he did and with a light hum he put something in Newt's hands. A very thin stiff thread and a crescent- shaped strangely blunt needle. He blinked at the items, but it looked pretty self-explanatory, so he closed one eye and a moment later offered the needle back. "Good lad."

Newt would deny both the sound he made and the way he suddenly felt very tingly all over till the end of his life. Or maybe to the moment when Anathema would shed some light at this…strangeness. Once he tried to ask Aziraphale about it but the man only patted his shoulder with a scrunched eyebrows and mouth pressed tightly into a quivering line like he tried very hard not to laugh when Newt explain. He at least knew it was not something…!bad.

"Can I ask you something?" 

Newt didn't yet learn the name of the two women. They were both about the same height and both had spatter of silver dots, one on her hands and the other on the top of the nose like a patch of freckles, but that's where the similarities ended. The one who spoke, facing Mister Crowley with a tilted head was wiry but wide shouldered, dressed in loose blue dress made from three or four layers and had short strikingly pale blond hair cut just below her ears. He couldn't decide whatever her eyes were brown or green but the way she was looking their way made him think of cranes and their watchful patience. The other woman had the most beautiful hair Newt ever seen. It was straight and black and had the fluidity of water, shimmering like the inner side of shells he used to collect (briefly and mostly unsuccessfully) when he was a child. That was the only remarkable thing about her. Her chin was too sharp for the shape of her crooked beaky nose, eyes set too close and so pale that they made him lean forward to see if she even had iris??? In the first place. She wore dark grey suit pants and crisp white shirt that did not hide how bony she was. She was so gaunt that next to her Mister Crowley could apply for a title of a bodybuilder. Frankly he had the urge to sit that poor woman down and feed her his mother's best dish (which was just potatoes with gravy and roasted chicken) until he couldn't see her clavicles piercing through paper-thin skin.

"If you must, fledgling."

"How can a demon heal?"

"I can't."

"OH, I DON'T KNOW. YOU WERE DOING JUST FINE STANDING IN MY WAY."

Newt knew this voice. He heard it once before on the day when the world was supposed to end. Death was sitting in a chair next to a bookshelf, hood hiding their face and black coat hid the rest until they were just a misshapen figure. The angels inched away and Newt felt that maybe that was wise, except the only way to move was to plaster himself to Mister Crowley's side. Which he promptly did.

"Azrael."

"CROWLEY." Death moved their head toward the angels leaning on each other, pale and still and not breathing at all. They brushed of invisible dust from their knee with a black leather glove, setting themselves more comfortably in their place. "HE CAN NOT HEAL, ANGEL PENEMUE, NOT ANYMORE."

"Stop scaring them." Mister Crowley nudged Newt behind himself, cocking his head toward Jegudiel. "You here for zir?"

"YES." This time, while Newt could hear the capitals, the voice didn't rattle in his brain nearly as hard, which his ears were thankful for. "IT WAS SOME TIME SINCE SOMETHING LIKE THIS HAPPENED. IT'S UNUSUAL. I DON'T CARE FOR UNUSUAL."

"Yeah, me neither. Grab yourself some coffee…how long?"

"NOT LONG. DO YOU HAVE BISCUITS?"

Newt felt his heart leap to his throat when it was Anathema the answered and the casually asked about milk and sugar and then went to put the kettle on, like making Death a cup of coffee was something normal. She was the bravest girl he had ever met and he will surely die ten years before his time if she continued to scare him like that.

He was shaken out of his growing pit of love and anxiety when he noticed that Mister Crowley was no longer was standing close to him, but was already bent over the wing, tiny row of even stitches growing slowly when he pierced the needle through the delicate skin pulling it out with something that looked like a pair of blunt scissors. His breath kept coming up with barely heard puffs of air and sweat clung to his lips and chin and tip of the sharp nose. Newt pulled out a tissue and wiped them without thinking. Mister Crowley nodded, without looking up, and Newt took it as a sign that perhaps it was not completely useless gesture.

One of the angels miracled a steel-like contraption and both of them maneuvered their friend into it, while Mister Crowley sat down, looking in the space some minutes later. The only sounds in the room were soft clicks of leather and metal clasps and tinkle of porcelain cup hitting the plate. The mechanism was a strange thing. It raised the wing up, showing the neglected side fully discolored by the strange putrid blood, but without turning Jegudiel face up. He wonders why, but doesn't ask. 

Mister Crowley stands up only when the blood is cleared and nobody mentions the way he tilts to the side before catching his balance. Newt's fingers don't burn like the angel's do, but each time he touches the milky substance, even through the glove, it feels like touching ice for too long, pain so brief that he thought he was imagining it the first two times it happened.

"How many do you think are left? Seven? Eight? " Mister Crowley was no longer really speaking, his voice a little more then expelled breath and harsh hissing whisper. Newt washed the tiny space left above the neat row of sutures with a moist and strangely salty smelling gauze that suddenly found its way to his hand. 

"Nine"

"Nine. Might be. So, I will bet you I can do all of them at once."

"And if you do?"

"You are hosting us at Christmas."

"And when you don't?" Newt prayed that there were less then nine. And not for his sake either. Mister Crowley's eyelashes were wet but it was the soft trail of black scales that turned to garnet at the base of his throat that worried him more.

"I'll cook for you and Aziraphale will make you socks. He makes the ugliest socks in the world. "

"We planed to eat lasagne and cuddle under Christmas tree." Newt swallowed at the sweet sound of Anathema's voice. She came closer, slipping an arm around Newt's waist and he nearly melted on the spot, feeling part of the tension disappear. He watched her as she surveyed the patch of crystals standing untouched in their spaces. He had no idea what they were supposed to do but she didn't look disappointed only tense - so perhaps whatever job they had it wasn't yet finished.

"Nice. Throw some wine and cheesecake and we are golden."

It takes ten. Mister Crowley doesn't pause once he starts again and Newt doesn't really startle when Aziraphale arrives near him, slipping a hand around his husband, helping to hold him up and still standing. Three sutures end up uneven and stand out against the rest. He puts in the last with breath closer to a sob, but once it done and the wound is closed... 

They all hear it, the sound of a teared cloth and metal hitting metal and shattering glass all in one and the crystals turn fully black and matte and something changes so quickly Newt nearly loses his balance as all of them try to take a step back and cover their ears simultaneously.

Mister Crowley's panting, holding the edge of the table and then half turns to look over his shoulder.

"Is it gone?"

"YES."

But Death doesn't leave and Mister Crowley doesn't look surprised by that. He pics up something that looks like a drink straw, short and narrow, and then makes his hands still their constant tremble. He looses up the thread around the last stitch and slips the straw inside the wound at the angle till it sticks out and then puts plasters over it. The moment he is done with it he pitches forward.

He hisses at Aziraphale in a long stream as he is lowered slowly to the ground wrecked with shivers and now, that the curse seems to be broken, even worse then Jegudiel. Whatever the hisses mean, Aziraphale must understand them from the low gentle tone as he assures Mister Crowley that it was alright and he knows he 'doesn't like that form'. What form, Newt doesn't have a clue, but Mister Crowley must be finally convinced. because he kisses Aziraphale's cheek and then the red of his hair disappears as the shape of his body changes. Aziraphale holds him for as long as he can until he carefully lies the large triangular head on the floor.

Not long after that Newt got a better idea how Harry Potter must have felt like when he got a first good look at basilisk. The body moved slowly toward the wall and then climbed horizontally upon it to finally reach the ceiling. Physics shifted in a way physics shouldn't as the enormous coils kept wrapping themselves in a spiral and finally a head the length and height of a double-decker bus moved onto the sea of obsydian and garnet, resting there. The serpent closes his eyes and Newt is very sure that this was not supposed to happen as snakes don't have eyelids. And then he remembers that the being clinging to the ceiling against the laws of gravity is older then humanity and an ancient witness of the entirety of its history and that if he wanted to close his eyes for a wink, then he was well and truly allowed.

It took him a moment to unscrew himself from blinding terror to notice the way angels...maybe Newt wasn't the only one who wished to not be there, moved by instinct old as time that kept screaming to run for the hills. By Aziraphale's lightly raised lip this was deliberate. Mister Crowley could have went to bed and while maybe he needed to be a large snake for a while, the fact that he changed into a Lovecraftian horror and decided to stick around was to make a point. He was here and here he would stay.

Newt decided that he needed to sit for a moment... or rather his legs decided that for him, so he did. If snakes could do facial expressions, he could have sworn that Mister Crowley looked smug.

"CHEEKY. ZE WILL LIVE. AS ALWAYS, PLEASURE TO WATCH YOU WORK." Azrael stood up, patting off the crumbs from their coat, they nodded toward Anathema. "THANK YOU FOR THE COFFEE...THERE IS A CAT ON YOUR ROOF IF YOU CARE TO KNOW."

They were gone in a blink of an eye. The black-haired woman-shaped angel was gone with them, appearing a second later with a yowling ball of wet orange fur. It was clearly miserable. There was a series of finger snaps and a second later it looked dry and fluffy and round like a beach ball, which made the angel's fears so much more understandable. When you can heal with one click of fingers a wound that can't be dealt with that way must be very confusing and rather terrifying.

Aziraphale told them that neither of them was welcome in their respective work places and Newt was smart enough to understand, that it was under the threat of bad things happening, so it was all the sadder that, when angels were running from Heaven. they run straight here instead anywhere else in the world. Were there nobody else who would help them? No other place for them to feel safe in?

"Azapal… Azafalafala…? Zira! You have a snek on the" Newt startled at the sight of…archangel Gabriel stumbling over his feet and words while waving enthusiastically toward the ceiling from the corridor "up floor! Hallo! Snaky snek...oh you are so pretty. Did you see my Bee, Mister snake? About this big, " The angel sways and giggles while his hand raises a bit, showing Bee's? height to be somewhere an inch above his hip. Tips of his bandaged wings, splattered with small golden spots drag behind him. Mister Crowley shakes his enormous head, twisting it till it's no longer upside-down and lowers it. Physics bends once again, making his head only about the size of industrial fridge and he moves to be somewhere closer to the swaying angel, catching him when he tips forward onto his snout. "and squishy. Oh! Boop!"

"Tell me you are getting this" Penemue leaned to watch over Anathema's shoulder at her recording phone, her eyes big and mirthful, her…partner? friend? put her hand to her mouth and bit into her finger to stifle the soft giggles.

"Yes and still not believing."

And then the main door opened. A small thin person with funny fly hat entered and Archangel Gabriel squealed like a little child at the sight of a pony, lurching himself forward in an uncoordinated…hug attack?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is their life now...

Till the moment they looked up to see a beast of a serpent glued to the ceiling they were convinced hell had only two fallen seraphs. Their mental list expanded, added a note and arrived at the conclusion that they may have dodged a bullet by not trying to inconvenience the unusual pair after holy water fiasco. It boggled their mind to know that there was one demon in hell equal to Satan's power, and sane one at that, and instead he choose to walk among mortals close to the bottom of the Hell's power ladder. But then, after what happened to the other two… 

They patted the obviously drugged lump of an angel that couldn't string a sentence that would contain an ounce of sense. On the other hand it wasn't that much different from his usual state.

Something growled. Then yowled and a red furred beach ball took a flight and collided with Gabriel's back. 

They remembered Heaven's choirs, the sounds of lions and eagles and bells. The scream of millions metaphysical throats singing the kind of sounds that made the universe vibrate with its strength and over all - the voices of seraphim, ribbons of flames and light howling ' _Holy, holy!_ ' to the glory of God. And yet somehow they never heard the sound as high as Archangel Gabriel wailing too close to their ear when a vengeful cat put all of its knife-sharp nails through the bandage and filled its maw with mouthful of feathers.

"Beeeeeee! Mammal!" Gabriel jumped away…well, swayed away with most pathetic whine, likely unaware that said mammal deeply wished to eat his face. He danced around like he was a giant, strangely smelling pigeon and the cat, following their primordial instincts, bit harder trying to maul him. It was quite entertaining to watch but their three ounces of dumbass had been in enough pain as it was. 

Beelzebub promptly erased that thought as if it never happened. Not quite demonic thought to have. Mushy, even…Satan bless.

But.

Perhaps Beelzebub would help. 

They were even inclined to. Somewhat. Stupid sentiment kept stirring in their chest area and only the regularity of its appearance near this stupid man-angel-child made them convinced it wasn't indigestion. So…sentiment. And inclination toward…helping. They could be convinced to.

That's it, if not for a fact an angel screaming with not at all human voice does tend to do some damage to demonic eardrums and they found themselves sitting on the floor with no memory how they'd found themselves there, hands clasped over their ringing ears.

And the cat. 

There was indeed a special place in Hell for cats and it was far far away from certain Prince of Hell.

Gabriel pranced, yelping each time he tried to swat the cat off his back. Probably yelping. Beelzebub could hardly hear their own thoughts much less anything else. They took solace in the fact that the two humans looked even worse. And that it will make a nice memory once this circus ends. It's not every day you see two woman-shaped angels try to swipe an orange beast of untamed fury from archangel's back with brooms. Humans curled into balls of misery and Guardian of Eden snapping his fingers like it was disco.

Gabriel kicked a bucket. It was not metaphorical bucket but tangible and physical one and as it spilled, stopping inches from Beelzebub's ankle, it stank worse then the lake of sulfur Hel had dried some five hundred years ago. 

A black blur passed overhead.

White teeth flashed.

And the cat was no more.

It's funny. That thing when you say 'Fear not' but really mean, 'You'd bloody well better be afraid, sweetheart.' Because Beelzebub got suddenly very afraid and they even could say they were once the kind of being who would have said that line with no irony. It's just…fear of serpent-shaped beings was not something that _humans_ came up with. It was already there before some smartass from animal design department went 'oh! I'm gonna make a legless venom noodle and call it a day!' and another smartass put a stamp on in.

Metaphorical. 

Stamps were yet to be imagined.

So maybe Beelzebub was a tiny bit worried, no scratch that, apprehensive. Yes. That's the word. They were tiny bit apprehensive of the small insignificant snake demon Crowley since maybe, oh…down of times? Just healthy amount of fear…No! _weariness_ to keep them on their toes. He was the only demon to stay on earth. He had a reputation of The Father of Sin. All the bad things they knew, they knew from him.

Quite the resume for a step over janitor.

Beelzebub had spend perhaps one entire year altogether on Earth in their existence and came to a terrifying but truthful conclusion that Earth was terrible place for a demon to be. They would bet that there were at least five churches only in this city alone. Ten, even! All with priests and nuns and holy water and _Faith_. And humans! They scream 'bless you!'... Unprovoked! You as much as sneeze because of all that cursed flowers and you choke on something more then your snot. And cars, electronics, 'inteligent crosswalk' whatever the hell it was…Everything was beeping, wheezing, howling, serenading or blinking and flashing all day long. And the elbows…you'd think one gets used to being poked in the side with an elbow but one does not when one is a Prince. They were not to be messed with and demons knew that. Humans didn't. And somehow giving them diarrhea wasn't really satisfying when you were nursing bruises.

Beelzebub might have not spend a lot of time among humans but they knew that a lot of them had a habit of torturing their fellow humans for being slightly different then themselves and they didn't wish to think about what they could do to a stray angels and demons. 

They heard enough stories and far too many demons never came back to their posts.

Beelzebub wouldn't wish Earth on their worst enemies and yet Crowley lived here and _liked it_. Hence the weariness.

And then the bastard does **this**.

Curiously enough his husband was either the bravest or the stupidest being in entire creation because he liked it too.

And was now standing on a chair whacking seraphim on the chin with a broom.

They were all gonna die.

"Crowley spit it out. Spit out the cat, you don't know where it has been!" 

It was probably easier said then done, as snakes were made in a certain way that did allow things to get in one way and out on the other and one should be careful to not mix said two, but Crowley did indeed spat out the cat with a soft 'mleh' sound, leaving it standing there on shaking paws, once again wet and looking like it regretted all its past six lives.

And then Crowley grumbled and Beelzebub would swear in their dying breath that they did not freeze at the low, hissed 'h'ngry'. Fucking seraphs. Beelzebub grimaced at the cooing noises made by Aziraphale as he patted Crowley with a broom and muttered something about chicken and missing Principality scepter.

"…brrrm. In b'drm. Put't 'n ssse c'ndlesssssstyh." Large head moved a bit so he could look at the angel more fully." Ssri shikh'ns wih sssshili?" [Bedroom. In bedroom. Put it in the candlestick. Three chickens with chili?]

"Only this once and I am not kissing you after that." Aziraphale clicked his fingers, frowned at the floor and clicked again. Nothing happened, the power sizzling off before it attached. "Darlings, could you?"

Beelzebub didn't know what 'could they' and was more interested in the fact that they were alone with humans, angels, snake and a cat and they were all the things they didn't like. And then Aziraphale went to kitchen, and that didn't make Beelzebub feel any better at all.

"Bad mammal! Bad, bad mammal!" Gabriel sat huddled, sniffing, violet eyes wide with betrayal and flooded in tears. Gangly male human with greenish tinge to his face awkwardly patted him on the arm, offering a tissue and nearly immediately skedaddling with another human toward what they knew to be a bathroom for unknown human reasons. Beelzebub sighed, braced themselves on on the ground and…howled in pained surprise. They raised their hand, holding it away from themselves, trying to ignore the deep freezing pain clawing at their power. Two of their fingers were coated in fetid milky brown goo. They snapped their fingers to make it go away and instead of relief it send them the sensation of thousand needles piercing through the skin.

"No! Don't wipe it on the clothes." They stopped the instinctive reaction, shifting their hand away. It sounded…reasonable. The goo resisted miracle, hurt and clung to their skin. It would cling to clothes too. They just couldn't grasp why an angel, who was apparently protecting the miserable pile of lilac feathers lying on the table, was even slightly helpful. Those were strange times. "Here." Tall blonde angel came closer clinking on the floor with her shoes, some sort of white-green plastic package held in one hand. They narrowed their eyes, flies raised in agitated swarm and fully focused on this fledgling angel. She looked down, putting her fingers in the package and showed a bunch of strangely attached cottony squares. She raised her head and they could see how her eyes widened, her hand suddenly thrown toward…something behind them.

"Oh, gross matter!" Beelzebub would have never commit that kind of mistake with anybody else. But this was Gabriel. They were used to Gabriel. So used to, that he no longer registered as a threat and so he was able to creep this close, somehow avoiding the puddle of blood only to hover over Beelzebub's finger with his mouth open.

And then Gabriel dangled in Crowley's mouth, caught by the back of his shirt, like a scrap of meat. While Beelzeebub had to swallow their heart that crept into their throat, Gabriel let out delighted 'wheeeeee' when Crowley moved his head toward Aziraphale who was just leaving the kitchen with a tray of raw chicken stuffed to the brim and covered nearly fully with paprika.

"Crowley! No eating Gabriel, either! Do you want to have indigestion?!

Beelzebub gave up. They raised up, took the suspiciously wet scraps of cotton from an angel, didn't react when humans appeared armed with mops and buckets, but slightly less green if smelly. They adjusted their fly hat and sat themselves in 'their' chair. 

They absolutely did not twitch at the elated scream of 'Harry!' as a white bunny hopped into the room from the open bathroom doors. Or when Crowley slithered about and deposited lightly slobbered over Gabriel onto their lap.

And then the, quite forgotten for a blissful moment cat wailed the battle growl and gave chase after the so called 'Harry".

"'Assir'ph'l…c'n I easss ssem bossssh?" [Aziraphale…can I eat them both?]

**Author's Note:**

> this work might actually expand to be a multi-chaptered monstrum, wish me luck!  
> Subscribes, kudos and comments make my day :)


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